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Month: January 2015

Sometimes I wonder why you keep trying see through me.
Like my skin is some sort of transparent glass to your favorite fashion line’s store.
How you look at my eyes and look away when I catch you staring, but turn around again to look some more.
See, I am not saying I do observe the little things you have been doing-
Like painting my names in your dreams, and caressing the hems of my intelligence in your mind, how you try to touch me for no reason.
That’s fine by me,
But you make it pretty obvious.
Up your stalking game sweetheart,
You can do all the crazy things love struck girls like to do.
run your fingers over my well defined abs…I think,
Laugh your sexy ass off at my jokes even when it’s obvious they aren’t a pinch funny,
Call out my name three times, twerk to the chorus of Kojo Antwi’s “Su Nketenkete” and jump around seven times in turns and see if I will appear.

Yeah, and all of that naughty things too; that bad girl no one knows of.

I see you want to make for me memories that I will find hard to forget.
I see you want to break me and build me up to the kind of man you want; forget.
I won’t fight it; when you are doing long.
I won’t right it; when you are wrong.
I won’t knight it; even though it’s Mark’s song.

I will let you do all you want to.
I will tell you all my secrets, take you to the deepest innermost fears of mine.
Let you feel my groins, their undeniable weight.
Let you explore my body, touch my lips, thrust my hips with your pelvis, trust my heart with you, beautiful critic.
I will hold you by your hand and willingly show you the darkest sides of me ,
Since you asked for it.
Yes I will help you fulfill your fantasies and make your lucid dreams of our escaping reality come true.
No two ways about that.
And The bed-rocking, toe-curling, sheet-grabbing, blissful, orgasmic sex you always wanted from me, you can have that as well.
Yup! You read right.
The bed-rocking, toe-curling, sheet-grabbing, blissful, orgasmic sex will be all yours, anytime.
I am yours for the ravishing.
I will be there for you; a shoulder when you need rest, a listening ear,all the clichés of gentlemanliness.
You can have it all.

For so long I have been trying to stay, play, pray and stow away just to not let people see that “I want to release it” look on my face.
Voices in my head:
“Lazy much?”
“Prince don’t do it, it’s better this way.”
“You won’t last this long!”
“It’s always better if you keep it to yourself…”
Choices to be made;
Decisions! Decisions! Decisions!
Walking around with my hands clenched to my butt- of course with style, just to fight that “it’s time to let it all out” phase.
My heart is heavy not with fully pumped valves and arteries but with chumped rationales and self-mockeries.
Each day is a battle, every second of it, is a tug of war as to whether to
Surrender or not,
Retreat or still fight,
Give up or go nuts.
It’s really hard trying to keep it all in there, when you are just a few tickles and strokes away from bursting.
And then there are those times where I just sit back pretending to watch my life unfold before me
My fantasies, dreams and wishes intertwined like rattlesnakes on a gangbang session
But really, I just can’t get my shit together
I just can’t seem to voice out exactly what I want my dreams to be like
The kind of horses my wishes should be and the chariots they should be tied to
The highest height of cloud nine that my fantasies should be floating on;
I just can’t seem to let any of that out, not because I willingly can’t
I am just afraid to force ‘em out and leave a mess and shitty ambience when I am done with that by-force-by-force-I-must-say-my-mind steeze.
Sometimes it feels like rage, like my inner most self is the core of a volcano waiting to implode
Other times it feels like it’s age, things that comes with growing and being a man
And there other annoying times it feels like happiness, thousands of butterflies having a X-project kind of party in my stomach
Sometimes it feels like love, sweet and calm, like Cupid, like me being stupid, in a good way
Other times it feels like depression, my heart could actually taste bitterness
And there are other naughty times where I just want to go and play with Rati and Qadesh in a hot steaming Jacuzzi of a stream that flows from the periaqueductal gray of Aphrodite and sip on vodka brewed by Angels.
I just can’t put a finger on it
I just sit there; continue to pretend that I am watching my life unfold before my eyes
And squeal and squeak and let out loud soft meaningless moans and cries
In front of a blank screen.
But of course, what do you expect??
They are all constipated emotions.